Fantasy Author

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"THE PRINCE'S MAN" BY DEBORAH JAY

Rustam Chalice, hedonist, dance tutor and spy, loves his life. So when the kingdom he serves is threatened from within, he leaps into action. Only trouble is, the spy master, Prince Hal, teams him up with an untouchable aristocratic assassin who despises him.

And to make matters worse, she's the most beautiful woman in the Five Kingdoms.

Plunged into a desperate journey over the mountains, the mismatched pair struggle to survive deadly wildlife, the machinations of a spiteful god - and each other.

They must also keep alive a sickly elf they need as a political pawn. But when the elf reveals that Rustam has magic of his own, he is forced to question his identity, his sanity and worst, his loyalty to his prince.

For in Tyr-en, all magic users are put to death.

Award winning novel, THE PRINCE’S
MAN, has been described as ‘James Bond meets Lord of the Rings’ - a
sweeping tale of spies and deadly politics, inter-species mistrust and magic
phobia, with an underlying thread of romance.

Living mostly on the UK South coast, she has already
invested in her ultimate retirement plan – a farmhouse in the majestic,
mystery-filled Scottish Highlands where she retreats to write when she can find
time. Her taste for the good things in life is kept in check by the expense of
keeping too many dressage horses, and her complete inability to cook.

Her debut novel, epic fantasy THE PRINCE’S MAN, first
in a trilogy and winner of a UK Arts Board award, was published in July 2013,
with THE PRINCE’S SON due out in 2014.

Urban fantasy, DESPRITE MEASURES, published in
December 2013 is the opening novel of the projected five book CALEDONIAN SPRITE
SERIES.

She also has non-fiction equestrian titles published
in her professional name of Debby Lush.

READ AN EXCERPT FROM "THE PRINCE'S MAN"

Rustam
laid the elf in the shade beneath an ancient spreading oak. His breathing was
audible now, but that was no more reassuring. Now it rasped and bubbled like a
drowning fisherman, and when Rustam touched his face, the skin burned.

He
looked around for Risada and found her kneeling by the stream, scooping water
in her cupped hands. She had removed the net and hat, and her pale golden hair
tumbled down her back, kinked into waves by its confinement. Rustam’s eyes
fixed for a moment on the graceful arch of her throat.

He
shook himself. “My Lady?” he called softly, aware that she was still furious
with him.

She
glanced up, frowned, and then rose to her feet. “Yes?”

Rustam
pointed at the supine elf.

“What
do you expect me to do about it?” she inquired icily.

Rustam
shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought you might have some idea; he’s hot as a
baker’s oven.”

“What
did you expect? He has very little chance of surviving this journey.” The
sunlight faded from the clearing and Risada glanced up at the clouds beginning
to amass overhead. “Especially if winter decides to break early.”

She
knelt down beside the elf and touched his flushed cheek and forehead. “He has a
fever—”

“That’s
what I said!”

“If you will let me finish? In my
saddle-bags you will find a small twist of blue paper. No, the other side. Yes,
that’s it. Bring it over here with a canteen.”

From
the paper she took two pinches of powder and mixed them with a small amount of
water in the canteen cup.

“Hold
his mouth open.”

Slowly
Risada dribbled the potion into the elf’s mouth, holding his jaw closed when he
choked and gagged. Then, satisfied that he had swallowed enough, she rinsed the
cup and stood up. “That should reduce the fever, always supposing he responds
like a human. It’s all I can do; I’m not an apothecary.”

Rustam
tightened the horses’ girths while Risada filled the canteens. They had just
remounted when thundering hooves pounded down the slope behind them and three
riders burst into the clearing.

On
the edge of his vision Rustam saw Risada drop the bay mare’s reins, draw her
dagger and raise a blowpipe to her lips in one fluid set of movements, while he
struggled awkwardly to free his sword from the saddle scabbard beneath his left
thigh.

Nightstalker
pranced eagerly, destroying the tiny moment of concentration he needed to snap
his mind into high speed. The elf bounced in front of him, blocking his view.
He cursed and curbed the mare sharply. She half reared in protest.

The
glint of a blade sliced towards him. Rustam threw himself sideways just as
Nightstalker squealed and lashed out with her hind feet. Already off balance,
Rustam slithered from the saddle pulling the elf with him, and they crashed
heavily to the ground.

Hooves
rose and fell finger distance from his face, trying to trample him, and they
might have succeeded had his beloved black mare not lunged at the attacker’s
brown gelding with her teeth bared.

Rustam
rolled away, finally managed to shift his time sense, regained his feet and
darted in beside Nightstalker. He dragged his sword free with a satisfying rasp
of metal on leather. The soldier, dressed in Melcard’s maroon livery, guided
his frightened gelding around the angry mare, and with a curdling battle cry
attacked Rustam. His sword arced downward and Rustam ducked, twisted around as
the horse passed him and sliced upward. A severed arm thudded to the ground at
his feet.

Uttering
a hysterical shriek, the soldier dropped his reins, and his horse lurched to a
confused halt. The man sat frozen in shock, gazing without comprehension at his
bleeding stump. Rustam sprinted forward, swerved around the spurting jet of
bright blood—no point soiling yet another shirt—caught hold of his victim’s
sword-belt and dragged him from his saddle. One quick dagger thrust ended the
man’s worry.

Rustam
turned to see Risada not faring so well. The blowpipe was nearly useless
against fast moving armoured targets, and her dagger was too short to menace
their swords. She was still mounted, but one rider was circling to get behind
her.

Rustam
vaulted into his saddle. Nightstalker grunted an objection at his rude arrival
but bounded obediently forward. One soldier’s back was towards him; the other
saw him coming and cried out. The nearer one began to turn, pirouetting his
horse on its haunches, but Rustam’s charge brought him quickly within range and
although the man managed to raise his sword awkwardly to parry Rustam’s first
blow, it flew from his grasp and the backswing sliced through his neck.

Turning
to confront the last of their attackers, Rustam found only an empty saddle. The
man lay spread-eagled on the grass, a tiny yellow feather adhering to his
exposed throat.

Risada
was already off her horse, kneeling beside the sprawled tangle of limbs that
was the elf. As Rustam jumped down from Nightstalker’s back to join her, she
rose gracefully to her feet.

“Somehow
I don’t think falling on top of him has helped his chances of survival.”